Twisted Psyche Series
by Starla
Summary: Buffy and Angelus and some co-dependency. Rated R for implied sexual violence. (Updated - 4, 9th October 2002)
1. A Fine Line

Title: A Fine Line 1/1  
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com or throwmywalrus@bored.com)  
Series: Twisted Psyche. This is the prequel to 'Conflicted Individuals', which can be found at my site, Sciomachy - http://www.liquid2k.com/sciomachy . Enjoy.  
Disclaimer : Joss owns all. I bow to him. I use some lines from a song, 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails (Ballad of B/Aus, B/S)  
Rating: Hard R, light NC-17.  
Distribution: Let me know if you don't archive me already.  
Dedication : Fred asked me for this a long time ago. Sorry it took so long.  
Feedback: Yes, yes please.

The first time it happened, I sold my soul to save a life.

He had Xander, I remember... Xander cornered and helpless, unconscious from the blow to the head he'd received, and the words... God, I don't even know where they came from.

"What do I have to do to make you leave him be?" I asked, as if I truly believed that there was *anything* I could do, as if I thought that he was a reasonable man.

The question worked, though, because he stopped in his tracks, and lifted his head, turning to stare at me. "What are you willing to do?"

I gulped, seeing the way, even then, that he was looking at me, noting the way his eyes lingered on my neck and flushed breasts, the curve of my hip as I tried to stand defiantly against him. "You know me," I said flippantly. "I'll do anything to save a life."

He smirked, "I do know you," he said, and came closer, cornering *me*. 

Damn.

His hand came to rest on my hip as he leaned in, reminding me of _((Oh, god, Buffy, you smell so good...))_ the many nights I spent with my Angel in the graveyard, whiling away long hours with tongues and teeth and hands, and, inevitably, the single night we spent really together. As in, you know, intimately. Biblical.

I didn't really think of this as quite so holy.

"I do know you, lover," he repeated, "I know there are certain things..."

His hand brushed upwards, dislodging my shirt a little. I could feel his cool fingers on the flesh of my belly. 

This wasn't happening.

"...That make you squirm." 

"You don't want that," I said, shaking my head, clearing it, realising he was playing with me.

"Maybe I want that because I know you don't," he said, that same old familiar smirk crawling across his lips like storm clouds. He scented the air, his eyes twinkling, "Or, because you want to pretend you don't."

Hey, can I help it if feeling his body pressed up against mine after so long without it gets me a little... excited?

"Shut up," I said, shoving him away, momentarily forgetting about Xander slumped in the corner. When I realised what I'd just done, my eyes widened, and I felt fear coursing through my veins.

In a fair fight, I could beat Angel... but nothing about fighting Angelus is fair, and I'm exhausted in so many ways that I no longer bother keeping count. I can't fight him any more, knowing that when it comes to the crunch, I'll look into his eyes, and wonder if they'll ever hold that warmth again.

And just the thought that Angel, the real Angel, my Angel, could come back, always stops me dead in my tracks.

Which is how Xander came to be thrown unconscious to a corner, and how I ended up, soul tired, bone tired, injured and gazing at my ex _((I miss him, Will... I miss him so much))_ with eyes full of ... submission.

And then he was smirking, and then he was moving towards me again, and his lips were on mine, and I could taste my own blood, pumping, and hot, and copper tang between our mouths.

He was claiming me as his own again. And I let him.

When Xander woke up, I told him I fought Angelus off, fists of fury.

And he believed me, because I'm Buffy.

I'm Buffy, and I'm good, and I'm innocent.

Only, I'm not any more.

*^*^*^*^*

He looks up when I stalk into the room, and I see the irritation in his eyes, because this wasn't planned between us, and I may well have been interrupting ... something.

Something, with someone else, which makes me frown, my blood churning in my veins.

After a moment, though, the irritation disappears, and he actually looks pleased to see me.

"Good," he says, "It's you."

As if he didn't smell me coming a mile away.

"You were expecting someone else?" I say testily, thinking of long legs and pale skin and anyone else who could possibly find their way into his bed.

"Reluctantly," he replies, but doesn't elaborate. "You're a much better surprise."

"You're a bit distracto-boy tonight," I comment, "Usually you know when I'm on my way over before I do."

He frowns at me, and I hold up my hands. "Hey, just statin' the facts as I see them, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy," he snarls, his mood changing so rapidly that it shocks even me... and I'm fairly used to Angel's soap-opera-style mood swings. 

"Woah. Someone got out on the wrong side of the coffin tonight," I snipe, and then I realise that I've been in the room at least 30 seconds, and he hasn't even touched me yet. For two people who only see each other to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, this is bizarre. "What's the deal?"

"What?" he snaps, and then he's moving me towards the door, until my back is pressed against it. "The deal with what?"

"You being all 'PMS, yay!'," I accuse. "I mean, I came over here for a little mutual satisfaction, but if you're going to be cranky, I'm not going to stick around." 

He scowls at me, and I feel a single talon of fear rip into my heart. 

"You think you've got a choice?" he hisses, his eyes swirling gold, flashing between snatches of brown.

"You think I don't?" I snap back, angry. 

He's not allowed to treat me like that. In this, we're equal. In this, we're both the predator.

"Whatever," he says suddenly, shrugging and walking away. He turns his back on me and draws a cigarette from a half empty deck. "Do what you want." 

"I thought I was - that'd be why I wandered over here when I'm supposed to be patrolling, freshly showered and minus underwear..."

That seems to peak his interest, because his head moves a little, and then he is turning around to study my bare legs, stretching up and up until they disappear under my mini.

Even when he's pretending he doesn't want me, I can tell what he's really thinking, just from the fever in his eyes.

"Have you been out like that?" he asks me angrily, and I roll my eyes because he's such a caveman.

Sometimes it makes me furious that he thinks he can claim me like this, ranting and raging about how much skin I show at times. I long ago conceded to the fact that he and I are joined, primally, probably until my death, but I refuse to be his little dog, chained up to his leash and only brought out into the light when he sees fit.

"God, get over yourself," I spit, "I'm not your *toy*, Angel."

"Yes," he says, voice deadly, powerful and hypnotic. "You are."

In an instant, he has grabbed my wrists and thrown me onto the bed, looming over me like storm clouds, slight chance of thunder.

"You're mine," he insists, and kisses me savagely.

Somehow, I manage to spit out, "And you're mine."

He stops, and glares down at me, "What?"

"I know you're used to being that *Master* around here, but that doesn't count with me." I wrap my legs around his waist, and pull his hips down to grind against mine. "I'm not your whore, unless you're mine. I'm not your slave, unless I'm also your master." When I kiss his lips, I draw my own blood on his blunt teeth, and then I roll us over, so *I'm* hovering over *him*. "Now, be a good boy," I warn, and then we're mating.

It's furious, as usual, bitter and angry and primal and so fucking *blissful* that it barely matters that I'm screwing a demon. 

I'm so over that fact. He's a demon. Who knows what the fuck I am? Who am I to judge?

His hands _((claws))_ rake over my back, and I smell the tang of blood rising to the surface, and I throw my head back and howl into the night, the pleasure-pleasure-pain screaming through my body, sweat rolling out of my pores like crashing waves. 

((You can have my isolation

You can have the hate that it brings

You can have my absence of faith

You can have my everything

I wanna fuck you like an animal))

Being with him, like this, is bestial. We're animals, rutting and mating and nearly killing each other, wrapped up in our cave, grunting and hollering and howling into the flesh of our other.

"You belong to me, too," I tell him after, panting, barely able to lift my head off his chest. "I know that you whore around with your little harem, but, lover, you *belong* to *me*."

His silence is as good as an admission, so I turn my sweaty head up and smirk at him. He's still frowning.

"If you ever so much as *look* at another-" he starts, then scowls and looks away. 

I can't help it. I laugh at him. "What, you can fuck whoever you like, but I'm only allowed to be a slut when it comes to you?" I catch his petulant frown, and feel a rush of excitement at his jealousy. "What brought this on, anyway?" I roll my hips against his, "Who is that you think I want to screw?"

"Nobody," he says darkly, then admits, "It's just something Dru told me about Spike."

"Spike?" I say in confusion. I really don't get it. What could Spike *possibly* have to do with me?

"He's consumed by you," Angel growls, "He wants you."

I laugh again, and say, "Don't be ridiculous. It's *Spike*. Spike *hates* me."

Angel just stares at me, and I get it.

There's fine line between love - lust - and hate. 

I mean, aren't Angelus and I the perfect example of that?


	2. Domestic

Title: Domestic 1/1  
Author: Starla (throwmywalrus@bored.com, fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com)  
Series: Twisted Psyche - sequel to 'A Fine Line'.  
Disclaimer: Joss owns all the characters. I'm just messing with their heads.  
Distribution: Let me know.  
Rating: R  
Timeline: It's kind of AU s2 of Buffy, but it's all very vague...  
Feedback: Love it.  
  
--  
  
"So tell me," I say conversationally, then ram my fist into his beloved   
face, "Why is it that you freak out about Spike oogling my goodies, but you   
haven't complained about that minion dude who guards your front door?"  
  
He throws me aside, and I'm surprised when he catches me before I hit the   
wall. "I have not, and never will 'freak out' about Spike and his pathetic   
crush on you," Angel snarls, "I just think it's ... undignified."  
  
"It's undignified for Spike to find me attractive," I repeat, offended, and   
twist at a strange angle to kick him. "Cos, you know, who'd want to do me?   
It's not as if *you* ever throw me down and fuck me like an animal..."  
  
God, what happened to my delicate sensibilities? I sound like what my   
mother's mother would call a woman of 'ill morals'.  
  
Of course, if dear old Gran ever found out about what passes for my morals   
these days, she'd probably have a violent heart attack and die.  
  
Angel - Angelus - grabs my upper arms and pushes me against the wall,   
scowling at me. "It's undignified for Spike to pant after you like a puppy,"   
he corrects, "When he'll so clearly be tortured painfully for hours on end   
if he so much as *looks* like he's going to touch you."  
  
"Y'know, I've never seen any panting at all," I object, "I still think   
you're just being paranoid."  
  
Sick of sparring, I stand and stare at him, waiting for his response.  
  
"What reason do I have to be paranoid?" he says flippantly, but the   
underlying violence in his voice makes me shiver. "It's not as if *you'll*   
ever touch him."  
  
I snort, "Says you."  
  
He stops, deathly still. "What the *fuck* is that supposed to mean?"  
  
I don't show my fear, but I know he can smell it. "Well, you seem *awfully   
preoccupied* with Drusilla lately. Maybe I'll get bored. Maybe I'll need a   
little company."  
  
Why I feel the need to push him, I've got no idea. But he *has* been   
neglecting me in favour of Dru, and it's about fucking time that stopped.  
  
God, it sounds as if we're in a real relationship.  
  
"Jealous, lover?"  
  
I grin, then, because there's a teasing glint in his eyes, as if my jealousy   
pleases him. It's his little control over me, and that should bother me -   
and I suppose it does, a little - but there's this part of me... deep   
inside, buried under all the other life crap, all that stuff that is just   
surface... a deep, dark, huntress part of me, a predator, and that part of   
me loves this. Aches for his domination over me, or mine over him, or   
anything where there'll be blood, and pain, and lust, and even, maybe, a   
little love.  
  
"Yeah, and?" I say, gripping his hips and dragging him towards me, "You knew   
I was a possessive broad when you seduced me."  
  
"Didn't know you'd be this much trouble," he grumbles. "Honestly, I just   
thought you'd make a nice midnight snack."  
  
"Empty threat," I smirk.  
  
He slides his hands over my back, my hips, and licks his lips. "You think?"  
  
Then he's moving, down, down, down -  
  
and I'm falling -  
  
and whimpering --  
  
and for once in my fucking life, I allow myself to lose control.  
  
I scream - scream for him; scream for me, for everything we do and don't do   
and should do and everything he makes me feel. I scream for his lips on my   
skin, his hands on my hips, my fingers in his hair.  
  
I scream for wrong, and right, and everything in between.  
  
I scream for all the things I don't know any more.  
  
I scream... to be free.  
  
And, for once, I feel like maybe... I am.  
  
-- -- --  
  
Later, I fall asleep in his bed, which is a first. Normally, I'm up,   
straight away, either by choice or by his command, and out of the mansion,   
into the night, into the cold and lonely and lack of him. I don't know what   
has changed, exactly; I just know that he fell asleep first, and I couldn't   
force myself to get up and leave... and the way in which he reached out and   
automatically drew me tight against his chest kinda indicated to me that he   
had no problem with me staying.  
  
I dream of sofa beds and kitchen tables, linen colours, domesticity, all the   
things I'll never know. In my dream, I'm in the middle of Ikea, and all   
these cute, wholesome couples surround me, trying to give me a shopping list   
and one of those little pencils, and there's some guy at my back... but all   
I can see is Angelus, slipping through the crowd, his eyes on me, and them,   
and the furniture, and he's mocking all of us. He holds his hand out to me,   
drawing me away, into his arms ((clutches)), away from the blurry figure   
that tried to hold me back... Angel took me away, and I wanted him to.  
  
I couldn't face the couples, with their freaky little pencils and nesting   
instincts, trying to cage me and hold me in and make me one of them. I   
couldn't do that. I couldn't *be* that.  
  
And then I wake up, in his bed, in his scary gothic mansion, with the   
massive black velvet curtains, and the silk sheets sliding along my skin. I   
wake up to his possessive arms around my waist, the scrape of his leg   
against mine...  
  
And it is all so familiar, in a creepy past life, future life,   
known-it-was-here-all-along way, that I start to cry.  
  
I don't think I stop until morning.  
  
-- -- --  
  
When I finally start crawl out of bed the next morning, thoroughly late for   
school and dying for a glass of water, Angel grumbles in his sleep and tries   
to pull me back into the blankets.  
  
"I have to go," I say shortly, watching as one eye finally cracks open, and   
he stares at me for a moment in confusion.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"School," I grunt, snatching my arm from his grasp.  
  
His eyes widen further as he wakes up properly. "Are you still here?" he   
sneers, but the hurtful effect is somewhat dimmed by the fact that he's   
still trying to pull me back into bed with him.  
  
"Not for long."  
  
I kiss him, hard on the mouth, then slip out of the room, stumbling almost   
blindly into the bathroom.  
  
I shower, quickly, staring at the bottle of shampoo sitting on the shelf.   
It's Angel's, the same brand he used when he had a soul. It's actually kind   
of weird thinking about the fact that all these vampires have a quite   
impressive collection of soaps and shampoos and stuff... you don't really   
think about the fact that they have to shower and moisturise just like the   
rest of us. There's even a bottle of strawberry shower gel, and one of those   
floppy material sponge things hanging from the tap.  
  
It's kind of bizarre.  
  
Images flutter into my mind of Angel, and shower gel, and hot water and suds   
and *really* good sex, and I smile, reminding myself to keep it in mind for   
next time. I shut off the water, standing in the steam for a moment before   
turning around -  
  
And screaming, because Spike is leaning in the doorway staring at me. I   
hadn't even realised he was out of the wheelchair, yet. I really should keep   
up on these things. Y'know, Slayer-ly duties, and all.  
  
Angel comes bolting into the room, naked, and I'm still staring at Spike,   
covering myself with my hands and looking longingly at the towel, hanging on   
the doorknob - right beside the fucking pervert.  
  
"Do you *mind*??" I say indignantly, catching the towel Angel throws in my   
direction.  
  
One moment, he's glaring at Spike, and the next, he's got his grand-childe   
by the neck, dragging him away, and they're gone.  
  
I get dressed, kind of in a state of shock- because, hey, Spike saw me   
naked! - and I'm shaking a little. It's kind of... I don't know. I feel a   
little violated, even though I'm hardly a delicate little flower.  
  
I hear Spike yelp, "Bloody fucking hell! I just wanted to take a shower!   
It's not my fault she doesn't know how to lock a door -"  
  
The sound of flesh hitting flesh rips through the mansion, and I creep up to   
the curtain, to watch them.  
  
Angelus looks madder than I've ever seen him, and Spike's got blood   
dribbling down the side of his face, but he looks pretty damn angry   
himself.  
  
"Listen to me, *whelp*," Angel spits, digging his claws into Spike's neck.   
"If you ever so much as *think* about her in the wrong way, I *will* remind   
you of *exactly* why you hate me so much."  
  
"You think I'm afraid of you?" Spike bites out, and then goes flying across   
the room, crashing into one of Angel's beloved statues, which shatters on   
impact.  
  
"No," my lover growls, "but you never *have* been very smart, have you?"  
  
He leaves Spike in a heap on the ground, and stalks away, towards me. Our   
eyes meet, and I shrug, "It's not that big a deal, you know. So he took a   
peep--"  
  
"Stay out of it, Buffy," he snarls, "Give him half a chance, and he'll--"  
  
"What? Take me on a romantic island getaway? Not likely."  
  
"It's a power thing," Angel sighs, leading me out of the room, towards the   
front door. "I mean, he wants you, but not as much as he wants to overpower   
me. That's what it's about... It's something he'll fight for. *You're*   
something he'll fight for."  
  
"So this is all some vampire domination thing?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"Well, he'd still have to seduce me, wouldn't he?" I slide my arms around   
Angel's neck, pull myself close. "And *that's* sure as hell not going to   
happen..."  
  
"You don't have to go willingly," he snorts, shortly. "All he needs is a   
moment of weakness... and he'll just *take* you."  
  
"But... you're not going to let that happen."  
  
I've got a strange amount of faith in Angelus today; I think it's the fact   
that he stormed into the bathroom like some kind of big protective tornado   
when I screamed.  
  
You know... as if he actually *cared*?  
  
It's kind of nice for a change.  
  
Although, I could have done without the parts with Spike.  
  
I suppose I'll deal with that as it comes.  
  
God, *Spike* saw me naked!  
  
-- 


	3. Purest Insanity

Title: Purest Insanity 1/1 (B/Aus, minor B/A)  
Series: Twisted Psyche  
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com, throwmywalrus@bored.com)  
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Joss & Co. There's an excerpt from a song in   
there - 'Tuna in the Brine' by silverchair.  
Distribution: Let me know.  
Summary: Buffy is sick. Loosely replaces 'Killed by Death'.  
Series Timeline: After 'Domestic' but before 'Conflicted Individuals'. Find   
the rest of the series at the LoD.  
Spoilers: Nothing black and white, but consider nothing sacred.  
Rating: Um... PG? R? Profanities, talk of sex.  
Feedback: *Hell* yes.  
Dedication: Fred - Wretch did quite nicely indeed.  
  
--  
  
I look at him, and I feel it, like chundering thunder in my gut, like the   
purest insanity, like the broken barbs of sharp-edged glass.  
  
Hate. I hate him.  
  
It's always been there; there hasn't been a single moment in the last few   
months when I haven't been aware of the fact that I hate the man I ((love))   
sleep with just as much as I lust after him.  
  
Right now, I hate him more than usual. Right now, I hate him as much as I   
hate myself.  
  
"What are you doing here?" I bite out, ice in my voice. It's not like I care   
whether he knows it or not.  
  
He shrugs. "Maybe I couldn't stay away."  
  
Yeah. Like I believe that. "Fuck you. What, Drusilla has a headache   
tonight?"  
  
"Why else would I turn to you?"  
  
Asshole. "Not like I'm clambering to ride the Angel-mobile," I snap. "Get   
out of here."  
  
Mostly, I'm pissed because he's been doing his usual beck-and-call thing, as   
if I have to answer to him. Plus, the fact that he only wants me if no-one   
else is available.  
  
"You're pissed at me."  
  
"You're evil," I say nonchalantly, "Why shouldn't I be?"  
  
"Played a different tune a few nights ago."  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm a moody bitch."  
  
He sits down on my bed, and takes off his shoes. Someone is confident.  
  
Next thing I know, I'm being caught around the waist, and he's pulling me   
over him, his big hands holding my hips - gently, but firmly, as if he's   
walking a fine line between control and ... not control.  
  
I'm so very eloquent.  
  
"Angel," I whine, and kiss him anyway, alternately clutching him close and   
pushing him away. "You can't just..."  
  
I trail off as he covers my lips again, and I slip my hands under his shirt,   
feeling the skin move like sleek satin steel below my fingertips.  
  
"You can't just come here and-" I gasp "-kiss me, you know. I'm not just a   
bloody quick fuck."  
  
"Are you *still* whining about that?" he growls, and stretches back on the   
bed.  
  
"It's a little disconcerting when you pick a *nutcase* over me, that's all."  
  
"I didn't fucking pick Drusilla over you."  
  
"You practically threw me out so you could go off and crawl into her bed!"  
  
"It's-"  
  
"And don't tell me that it's the way of fucking vampires!" I yelled, "I   
don't care!"  
  
Still lying on top of him, I beat his chest with my fist.  
  
"If you can't fucking love me, then the least you can do is want me like I   
WANT YOU!"  
  
He's staring at me, "This isn't about me not wanting you, because you *know*   
I do," he says, pressing his pelvis close against mine. "It's about me not   
loving you."  
  
I shove him away, rolling on my side so that I wouldn't have to look at him   
- ever.  
  
"Leave me alone."  
  
He doesn't, and that's okay, because I don't think I really want him to.  
--  
  
The problem isn't that he doesn't love me, exactly; it's that I think I love   
him. I think maybe I'm not who I thought I was.  
  
Then again, who is?  
  
--  
  
I sit in the library, avoiding the eyes of my friends for the moment, unable   
to stand another second of lying to them without words -((take another pill,   
tell another lie, lie amongst your lies, like tuna in the brine))- sick of   
pretending, with each passing second, that I'm not going to go and crawl   
into his bed just as I do almost every other night.  
  
Giles is talking, his lips forming words that echo nonsense to my ears,   
unable to penetrate the fog I'm living - - dying - - in.  
  
I feel like a comical representation of a dog - only recognizing my own   
name, y'know? Like, "Blah, blah, blah, bliddy, bliddy, blah, Buffy! Blah,   
blah, blah, blah... Buffy, blah, blah, bliddy. Blah."  
  
I wonder if something is wrong with me.  
  
--  
  
The answer comes, later, and I heave over the toilet, emptying myself of all   
that acid-trash, the roiling inside my gut that's been approaching for days.  
  
I can't help it; I start to cry, and parts of me long for someone to be   
there, just so that I'm not that pathetic chick bent over the toilet, knees   
bruising against pristine white tile.  
  
The hands that touch my shoulders frighten me, for a moment, because mom is   
out of town - ((never here when I need you)) - and I wasn't expecting anyone   
else, anyone except -  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you, lover?"  
  
"Nothing," I mutter, turning my cheek so my mouth doesn't touch the toilet   
seat. "I'm sunshine and roses, can't you tell?"  
  
"Have you been drinking?" he asks, and I snort.  
  
"Do you *hear* the song 'Macho Man' issuing from my lips? No."  
  
My stomach lurches, and I'm a little embarrassed as I empty my mid-morning   
mocha into the toilet bowl. I mean, to be doing this in front of *Angelus*,   
who likes to see me naked, but is very unlikely to offer any sort of -  
  
Comfort.  
  
His big hand threads into my hair, holding it back from my face, and the   
other hand starts rubbing my back through my big t-shirt. For a moment, I   
can pretend that it's Angel, and he loves me, and it's all going to be okay   
- -  
  
Only it's not, because I can't stop throwing up, and I don't know why he's   
being nice to me, and I don't want to love him, damnit, I don't want to - -  
  
"You're sick," he says softly, and I hear a little irritation in his voice,   
as if this is fucking up the plans he had to - well, you know, fuck me.  
  
I don't know whether or not to give him credit for not trying to screw me   
tonight.  
  
"You think?" I snap. "And here I thought I was just venturing into the   
exciting new world of Bulimia."  
  
He sighs irritably. "If I take you into your room, are you going to wretch   
all over the sheets?"  
  
I grunt, and then he's got me in his arms, and for a moment I'm floored by   
how much I miss him when he's not around. He settles me on the bed, tucking   
me under the covers, nudging Mr. Gordo in my direction. He disappears out   
the door, and returns a few minutes later with a bucket, a glass of water,   
some tablets, and a hot water bottle.  
  
I stare at him with wide eyes. "You're aware that this is the most surreal   
moment of my life, right?"  
  
"Just take the fucking tablets," he says, the hot water bottle disappearing   
beneath my blanket.  
  
"And such a lovely bedside manner," I observe dryly, downing the tablets,   
though my stomach fiercely rebels at the thought of any type of liquid. "Did   
you just give me cyanide?"  
  
"Pain-killers," he clarifies, then sits beside me on the bed. "How long have   
you been sick?"  
  
"I don't know. I've been ignoring it."  
  
"You're going to get yourself killed."  
  
"As if you care."  
  
That stops him, for a moment, his beloved lips pressed in a grim, angry   
line. "You're mine," he says after a minute. "Mine to fuck. Mine to kill. I   
don't want you sick."  
  
"Maybe I don't want to be yours," I mutter, already falling asleep.  
  
I feel the bed shift as he lies down beside me, pressing me into his arms.   
His lips press against the side of my neck, and his voice is a gruff rumble.   
"Tough."  
  
--  
  
I sleep, and dream of Angel - the real Angel, my Angel, the one who lives   
and loves with soulful eyes and a heart of guilt - sitting with me, talking   
to me, holding my hand.  
  
"You feeling better?" he asks, pressing our twined fingers to his lips.  
  
"I don't know," I say, "Nothing counts here."  
  
He smiles sadly, and pulls me into his arms, his face buried in my neck. "I   
know."  
  
"You're gone," I tell him.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I'm sorry," I say shakily, "about--"  
  
He grunts, and kisses me, hard. "Don't." His fingers dig into my flesh. "It   
doesn't matter."  
  
"He doesn't love me," I say softly, resting my head on Angel's shoulder.  
  
"Yes," Angel whispers, "he does."  
  
I snort. "It's all ugly words and brutal fucks with him."  
  
"He loves you like an animal loves it's mate," Angel warns me, "And it's   
hard, and sometimes it's ugly, but it's there." I look into his eyes,   
longing for this dream to be real. "It'll protect you."  
  
"I love you," I tell Angel.  
  
"I am him. He is me."  
  
"No..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
My lips tremble, and Angel stills them with his own. "It's going to be okay,   
Buffy."  
  
He makes love to me, quietly, softly, stirring moans and cries and   
bittersweet tears, and I clutch at him. "Don't go."  
  
"I'm here," he says, his hand sliding over my breast to feel the thumping of   
my heart. "I won't let go." I sniffle, and press my lips to his. When I pull   
away, he looks at me with grim determination. "He'll protect you, even if it   
doesn't seem like it." His fingers hook under my chin. "He'll protect you   
from everything but himself."  
  
--  
  
I wake, pressed against Angelus' cold body, and feel a mournful cry loosing   
itself from safe harbour within my chest.  
  
Sleeping, Angelus reaches out his arms and draws me backwards protectively,   
hunched a little over me to hide me from the world.  
  
Maybe Angel's right. Maybe he'll protect me after all.  
  
I just wish he could protect me from the flu.  
  
-Fin- 


	4. The Hard Way

Title: "The Hard Way" (1/1, Rated R)  
Series: Twisted Psyche  
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com)  
Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. I'm just continuing his work. There's a few   
lines of Arkana's 'Eat Me' thrown in there for good measure.  
Distribution: Take it, Let me know. My site, sciomachy, @   
http://www.liquid2k.com/sciomachy  
Rating: R for language, violence, and sexual situations.  
Timeline: This comes after the fic "Purest Insanity" but before the fic   
"Conflicted Individuals". It's alternate season 2.  
Spoilers: Nothing really new. Up to the end of season 2, probably.  
Author's Notes: I know everyone is waiting for Climb, but I'm in RL hell and   
don't have the time or energy to devote to it. I'm still working on it, but   
it's currently on hold, probably until mid-to-late November.  
Feedback: Yes please. I'd adore it ever so much.  
Dedication: To fred and cav, without whom this fic would have sucked so   
much. Thanks for the help. I love you my pretties! *g*  
  
--  
  
My feet slid exhaustion-heavy against the stone floor as I wandered into the   
mansion. I was greeted by that Slayer-sized tingle in my stomach, warning me   
relentlessly of the beings that inhabited this place. Belly-flop,   
Belly-flop. Spin of the head.  
  
((I think I've lost some blood.))  
  
"Angel?" I choked out, leaning heavily against the wall. "Where the fuck are   
you?"  
  
I clutched my hand to my wrist, trying to stop the bleeding. I should have   
gone home. To the library. Even to the fucking hospital, just anywhere but   
here. Really fucking smart idea, coming to a vampire lair with blood running   
in a tasty river down your sleeve.  
  
"Fuck," I hissed, and then he was there.  
  
"Have a little accident, did we, lover?" His smirk was infuriating.  
  
"No," I shot back through gritted teeth, "I decided to look into the   
exciting world of masochism. Really opened my eyes." I winced and held my   
hand around my wrist a bit tighter. "So have you got a fucking tourniquet?"  
  
"We don't really try to stop the flow of blood in this house, my love."  
  
"Angel," I glared darkly. "If you don't get me something to stop the   
bleeding, I'm going to die. And you're going to have to go without a warm   
body in your bed at least until you've gotten rid of the corpse. So get me a   
tourniquet and save us both the bother."  
  
Gently, his hand slid under my wrist and lifted it to his mouth. He took one   
long, luxurious lick of my arm, sending shivers jolting down my spine,   
almost making me forget my impending death from blood loss.  
  
Rich timber eyes met mine, a warm mahogany glow that made my stomach feel   
all melt-y inside. My tummy rumbled, and I murmured, "Please, Angel."  
  
"See, now," he said, and scooped me into his arms. "Aren't they the magic   
words?"  
  
He carried me into his bedroom, and he must have fixed me up, because next   
thing I know, it's morning, the birds are singing, somewhere - behind the   
thick black curtains used to obscure the light - the sun is shining, and   
there's a neatly healed scar where only the night before, there was a gaping   
hole.  
  
It was morning, and he was staring at me with those eyes.  
  
((Eat my heart out when I wake up  
Can't remember how I got here,  
All I know is I don't care))  
  
"Morning," I said casually. As if I wasn't expecting the onslaught he now   
thought he had the right to release upon me.  
  
"So," he muttered, sitting on the bed beside me, a mass of knees and elbows   
and long, lean legs. "What the fuck happened to you last night?" He lifted a   
cigarette to his lips and takes a drag, releasing the rolling smoke slowly,   
angrily. "And who the fuck is it that I'm hunting for?"  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"I'm serious, I don't. I got jumped from behind... I wasn't paying   
attention, I guess."  
  
I remembered the flash of blonde hair and pale skin, purple-blue nails   
raking into my arm. I remembered the pain, and a giggle, and cursing myself   
for not being more careful.  
  
I remembered seeing the mansion a few blocks away, and stumbling a   
blood-stained trail to my lover, my skin feeling too thick and my bones   
feeling too weak. I remembered being afraid.  
  
I was totally unwilling to tell him that, though. Instead, I just sighed,   
and told him to eat me.  
  
Predictably, he quite liked that idea. Not that I was complaining.  
  
--  
  
When I woke again, he was staring down at me with dark, troubled eyes. I   
remember those eyes, filled with love and joy and tenderness beyond anything   
I'd ever known before. Tenderness beyond hearts, and flowers, and long lazy   
days spent wrapped in one another's arms.  
  
Those darling eyes were now filled with... something. Something harsher,   
darker than tenderness. Something balancing precariously the divide between   
love and obsession. Whatever it was, it was all for me.  
  
"Hey," I said weakly as I struggled to sit up. "Check it out, I'm still   
alive."  
  
He wasn't amused. "Just barely. If you'd pay some fucking attention to your   
surroundings, you wouldn't have been skewered."  
  
I snorted, but don't reply, because the truth is, he was right. Not that I'd   
ever tell him that. He thinks he's my lord and master enough as it is.  
  
"I have to go to school," I muttered and swing my legs out of the bed. A   
wave of dizziness coursed through me like ice-cold barbed wire and I   
faltered.  
  
"You've lost a lot of blood," Angelus drawled. "You can barely stay awake   
through Calculus as it is, and you think you're going to school?"  
  
"I am going to school," I repeated, and stood, shakily. "You don't like it,   
you can -- "  
  
He grabbed me around the waist, lifted me up, and put me back on the bed.   
"Lover, I'm tired, kind of angry, and *much* stronger than you at the   
moment. Do you *really* want to test my patience?"  
  
I tried really hard not to burst into tears. "B-But Giles, and Mom, Angel!   
Everyone will be wondering where I am." My lip quivered. "What if they come   
here looking for me?"  
  
"Why would they come *here*, of all places? They don't even know I live   
here."  
  
"They'll be worried about me," I insisted, reaching out a hand to curl it in   
his shirt, "Please, Angel. Angelus."  
  
"Don't give me that 'Angelus' crap, as if you're my mom telling me off,   
Buffy. Using my full name isn't any more convincing."  
  
I pouted. "You just want me here for a fuck." I caught sight of him rolling   
his eyes. "What? It's true!"  
  
"Buffy." He sounded really tired. Probably not in a fucking mood, if such a   
thing is possible for Angelus. "Look, I just want you to not get killed. And   
then maybe you can tell me more about what the fuck happened to you, and   
more importantly, who in the hell is responsible."  
  
"I told you already - "  
  
"I know. But I'll find them."  
  
And I could tell, from the determined gleam in his eye, the dangerous slide   
to his voice, that he meant it. And for some reason, that scared the shit   
out of me.  
  
--  
  
He finally let me go at five, and I stumbled home feeling empty and tired   
and angry at the world. I got home expecting the Spanish Inquisition from my   
mother, but she wasn't there. A message on the answering machine told me   
she'd been at the gallery all night, stocktaking.  
  
Just fucking wonderful. Thanks mom.  
  
I went upstairs and curled up in my bed. Alone. I'd nearly died. Here, away   
from Angelus, that finally hit me. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.   
Coward's rain.  
  
Death. Morte. Kicking the bucket. Selling the bleeding farm.  
  
Fuck.  
  
--  
  
I didn't see Angelus for a few days after that. It surprised me, because I   
expected him to be hovering over me like a Rottweiler. Barking at my every   
visitor and scaring away unwelcome intruders.  
  
He didn't, though. He just didn't bother. Maybe he didn't care.  
  
That bothered me much more than I'd like to admit. At some point in this   
weirdass affair, I started thinking of him as my boyfriend, a little. I got   
used to him treating me a certain way, and when he stopped... chaos. Misery.  
  
Why the fuck had he just abandoned me all of a sudden? Sure, he's *evil*,   
and he's an *asshole*, but he'd always been there when I needed him, before.  
  
I nearly died.  
  
I couldn't seem to reconcile myself to that idea. I 'nearly died' every day.   
I lived with death. I fought with death. I fucked death.  
  
But this time... this time it was so close I could taste it. This time it   
nearly swallowed me whole.  
  
I nearly died. I touched death. Not dead like approaching the bright light   
at the end of the tunnel, or dead like waiting to be reborn, but dead. That   
final nothingness. That tranquilised numbness of the beyond.  
  
Dead. I nearly died.  
  
--  
  
When I woke up on Thursday night, he was there. Sitting on my bed. Black   
sweater. Black pants. Eyes the black of absolution.  
  
"Where have you been?" I asked, trying not to sound so plaintive. Trying not   
to sound as though I missed him.  
  
He shrugged. "Been busy."  
  
My mind flashed in terror back to that first morning after he lost his soul.   
The mocking. The indifference.  
  
Things had changed between us since then, but you wouldn't know it from the   
way he was acting now.  
  
"What?" I asked hoarsely. "What the fuck is going on?"  
  
"Nothing." That same detached shrug. He didn't even look like he wanted to   
fuck me. For a moment, I was terrified that he had come to kill me.  
  
Just snap my neck and slip away in the night.  
  
"Angel?"  
  
He looked away. "I have to go. I'll - "  
  
He was going to say he'd see me later, I was sure, but he stopped himself.  
  
"You're acting weirder than usual," I said, and grabbed his arm as he tried   
to get up. "And for you, that's saying something. You haven't even *tried*   
to seduce me."  
  
His eyes grew cloudy as he looked at me. "Do you want me to seduce you?"  
  
I giggled and tugged on his arm, trying to loosen him up a little. "Of   
course, Mrs. Robinson."  
  
He pursed his lips, frowning at me. "I'm very busy, Buffy."  
  
I tugged him harder, right on top of me. "You can't even make time in your   
schedule for little old me? I'm offended. If you're not careful, I'll stop   
fucking you altogether."  
  
As he leaned in to kiss me, I heard his voice. "Little slayer, you wouldn't   
dare."  
  
He's right. I probably wouldn't. But I didn't have to tell him that.  
  
--  
  
When I showed up at the mansion a few days later, I discovered the source of   
his weirdness: six feet of pale porcelain skin and bloodstained lips.   
White-blonde elegance, stalking across his bedroom in one of his shirts and   
nothing else.  
  
"Darling," she purred to him, joining him on the bed. She kissed him, and I   
felt myself shake. She climbed over him, wrapped herself around him, and I   
thought my heart was going to explode in my chest.  
  
As he moved with her, he must have seen me or smelt me or *felt* me, because   
he looked up, suddenly. Met my eyes and flinched a little, but didn't look   
away, and didn't stop screwing her.  
  
I'd known he was fucking other women. I'd just never been confronted with   
the brutal reality of it before. I'd never had to see them or watch them or   
hear them, never had to hear someone else's voice whispering his name. Some   
other woman calling him darling.  
  
It was starting to make a sickening kind of sense in my mind. The truth   
thudded in my ears as I took one last look and left the mansion.  
  
He didn't want me anymore.  
  
I nearly died.  
  
He didn't want me anymore.  
  
I really had to kill something.  
  
--  
  
He came looking for me in the cemetery that night, as I was finishing off   
what felt like my fiftieth dusting of the night. All highly unsatisfying,   
because the vampire I really wanted to kill had long blonde hair and was   
making herself a brothel in my. lover's. bed.  
  
As the poor defenceless vampire I was venting my rage on exploded into dust   
and bone, I turned around and saw him, a few feet away, smoking a cigarette   
and looking at me calmly.  
  
We stared at each other for a few minutes before I spoke. "So she's why,   
huh? She's why you've been acting so weird." I laughed bitterly and shook my   
head. "She's why you're 'busy'."  
  
"What do you expect from me?" He cocked his head to the side. "Fidelity?   
Everlasting loyalty? That's not what we're about, Buffy."  
  
I felt every muscle in my body tightening. "I didn't expect that. I kinda   
hoped you wanted me more than the others, though. I'm a fool, huh? I mean,   
how many years of experience has she got on me? Fifty? A hundred and fifty?"   
I put my hands on my hips and sneered at him. "Little innocent Buffy is a   
mercy fuck, right? Deflower the virgin and move on."  
  
He shrugged. "You could call it that."  
  
"Fuck you, Angelus. You don't want me anymore? Fine. Whatever. I'll find   
someone else to screw. There's plenty of panting puppy dogs around, we both   
know that. But don't just ignore me. Don't pretend I don't exist so you can   
fuck one of your whores."  
  
He flinched as I talked about seeking my pleasure elsewhere. The fucking   
bastard had the gall to be jealous, to be *possessive*, after I'd just   
watched him in bed with some other bitch.  
  
I exhaled, feeling tired and sad and lonely as I gazed at him. "So who is   
she?"  
  
"Aurora. My childe."  
  
"Just thought she'd drop in on Daddy on her college vacation?" My tone was   
biting and angry. "Let me tell you, you and your spawn are just about fit   
for Jerry Springer."  
  
"Buffy, you're overreacting."  
  
I can't believe he had to guts to say that to me - stake in hand, heaving   
breath and all.  
  
"*Overreacting*?" I shrieked.  
  
"You're being a child," he shot back. "This is the way my world works,   
Buffy. You know that."  
  
"No. I don't. All I know is that a man who used to want me *all the time*   
suddenly isn't interested, and it's all because of HER!"  
  
I felt tears in my eyes and I forced them back.  
  
He approached me, pulled me against him. "What is it that gives you the   
impression I don't want you anymore, lover?"  
  
"I don't see you for days, and when I do, I have to *drag* you into my bed,   
and then you disappear *again* and when I finally get up the guts to go see   
*you*, there's another woman in your bed. I wonder how I came to such an   
obscure conclusion!"  
  
He looked at me lazily. "Aurora only showed up today, Buffy. I've been   
looking for the fucker that tore open your arm."  
  
Oh.  
  
I started to shake again. "And ... what? That's supposed to make it okay   
that when I close my eyes, all I can see is you? You and her and you and   
her. I can't make it stop."  
  
He ran an irritable hand through his hair. "This is the way it is. Accept it   
or don't accept it. But don't torture yourself with it. She's a good fuck.   
She's a good fight. But she's no different to the other vampires."  
  
I think maybe that's about as close as he good get to telling me he liked me   
better.  
  
"Does she fight as well as me?" I asked, clutching at his shoulders. So   
pathetic, I know. "Does she?"  
  
He smirked at me, arching his eyebrow. "She's not as... imaginative... as   
you. Not nearly so much fun."  
  
"Yeah, but when it comes down to it, that's all you think I am, right? Fun."   
I kissed him hard, a violent, punishing kiss. Tongues. Teeth. Blood. We were   
animals, struggling for dominance. "You're underestimating me, Angelus."  
  
"Am I?"  
  
I reeled back and punched him full across the mouth.  
  
"Yeah. I'd say so." I looked at him, glaring at me with blood dripping out   
the corner of his mouth. "I think you need an attitude adjustment, *babe*."  
  
"As opposed to anger management, like you?"  
  
"Don't push me, Angel."  
  
With that I turned and walked away. I think that was maybe the last thing   
he'd expected me to do. I'd never been capable of it before.  
  
I didn't get very far. He grabbed my arm and I was spinning around, allowing   
him to pull me against him. Our lips met, and my heart lurched, Angel,   
Angel, Angel. I wanted him to be mine, all mine, as he hadn't been in so   
long.  
  
((I love you. I try not to, but I can't stop.))  
  
Oh, god, Angel. Angelus. I didn't know how to differentiate them, sometimes.   
The lines blurred and shifted in the sand. Angelus would be sweet and almost   
loving one moment, and then calling me a bitch and a whore and fucking   
anyone but me the next.  
  
Fucking her. Aurora. As if that's her real name, anyway, and I know she's   
technically got an excuse because of that whole   
reborn-as-a-creature-of-the-night thing, but who does she think she is? A   
Disney princess?  
  
It made me furious that he thought he could just look in my eyes as he   
fucked her and then come to me at his convenience. It made me furious that   
he forgot who I am - what I am - and expected me just to take it. Sit there   
and whimper and drool and follow him like he was my master and I was his   
dog. Little shih tzu, yapping at his heels.  
  
God. Angelus. I wanted him to be mine almost as much as I needed to be his.   
Mine alone, not mine and Aurora's and Spike's and Drusilla's. Buffy's. I   
wanted him to remember that I was as much his master as his slave.  
  
But I wasn't strong enough to go all or nothing, so I just melted into the   
violence of his kiss, and allowed myself the thought that here, now, he was   
captivated by me. Here, now, he knew my power.  
  
Even if it wouldn't last. Even if I was so angry and so hurt I thought it   
would kill me.  
  
I pulled myself away and looked into his eyes. Rich whiskey eyes, the soul   
melted all away. Eyes that flashed gold as he looked at me.  
  
"Fuck whoever you want, Angelus." I pushed him away from me with   
Slayer-sized-force. He fell to the ground with an undignified thump. "But   
you're not fucking me tonight."  
  
We looked at each other for a moment. For the first time, he wasn't a shade   
of Angel. He was just a demon with an incredibly pretty face. It was all the   
strength I needed to get away. To run like hell.  
  
Even as I did, I knew... I hadn't won. Whatever the little battle we'd just   
fought had been, it wasn't over. Just temporarily delayed. His defeat of   
me... my complete and total destruction...  
  
It was still coming. And I was helpless to stop it.  
  
-- 


	5. Conflicted Individuals

Conflicted Individuals  
Disclaimer: Characters all belong to Joss, except Aurora, who is essentially useless anyway, unless I decide on sequels. (PFFFFT). The song is 'Mad about You' by Hooverphonic. Strikes me as very B/Aus.   
Distribution: Sure, take it. Send me an addy.   
Rating: Probably R. I don't know...some implied violence in sex, etc.   
Dedication: Thanks to Lisa, for betaing - the last line is pretty much her contribution, round of applause, darling. Also to Cav and Freda for our chat last night - you actually got me started writing some more stuff - *dances* - and Cav, yes, it's another 'C' title. What of it? 

_//Feel the vibe,   
feel the terror,   
feel the pain,   
it's driving me insane.//_

He moves gracefully around the room, jeans slung low on his hips, and I feel an unwanted tremor of desire course through my body. 

I shouldn't be here. I know I shouldn't. I didn't even *want* to come here, really, but he held out his hand, and smiled at me in that way of his - that way that always makes me give in - and I couldn't help myself. I took the hand, and followed him. Like I'd follow him anywhere, even if he's not really my Angel anymore. 

I think that what we do together probably makes me some kind of whore...or weak, at the very least. God, his soul has gone away - all gone, gone, gone away - and I still can't stay away from him. 

_//I can't fake,   
for God's sake -   
why am I driving in the wrong lane?//_

I always hear girls talking about their boyfriends - guys that their parents insist are dangerous, guys who drive motorcycles and drink beer and have revolving girlfriends - and feel this little pang as I realise that my version of 'dangerous' is highly different to other girls my age. My 'dangerous' guy is their nightmare. 

Mine, too. 

Angelus is... I don't know. I don't know why I can't stay away from him, but there's just this... I don't know, this primal instinct inside me that feels the urge to crawl inside his skin...to hurt him and let him hurt me and make love in my own blood. 

If my friends knew... If my *mom* knew... I don't know if they'd ever look at me the same again. There would be lots of 'This is *wrong*.' and 'This is *dangerous*.' and 'What if he *kills* you? Are you *insane*?' and I try to care, I really do, but I just seem to be this completely different person whenever he touches me. 

I know I'm betraying Angel... I know I'm fucking the thing that killed him... I just can't *help* it. I love Angel, I always will... but I'm drawn to his demon, who has been so recently set free. I know Angel should probably hate me for this. I know he'd feel guilty about everything Angelus has done. I know it all, intellectually, but I can't make myself stop. 

_//Trouble is my middle name,   
but in the end I'm not too bad...   
Can someone tell me if it's   
wrong to be so mad about you.//_

I've accepted that I'm not like other girls. I'm even beginning to understand that maybe being the slayer isn't all about the light...that maybe there's just as much darkness in me as there is humanity, and...maybe that's okay. Maybe that's why Angelus gets to me, because he represents my own inner mysteries. I think that was part of what it was about with Angel; we were both highly conflicted beings, both walking a very fine line between heroism and...villainishness. Whatever. Don't make fun of my less-than-sterling grammatical skills. Just remember who my boyfriend is. 

Even if, technically, he's not a boyfriend. Even if, technically, he won't even admit that he cares about me at all. Asshole. 

Said asshole is moving towards me now, smirking. He hovers over me, balanced on his arms, gazing down at my body. For a moment, I catch a flicker of concern as he sees the purpling bruises rimming my stomach, and feel my own smirk settle across my face. 

Sometimes, I could *swear* he loves me. 

"What?" I tease, feeling suddenly much more light-hearted, "Pissed off that somebody else has been playing with your toy?" 

He glares at me, and doesn't reply. He's such a *guy* sometimes, I swear. Angel was very 'guy' often, too, but nowhere near as bad as Angelus, who is Mr. Possessive, but won't admit that there's anything in his jealousy apart from the usual vampiric pride and dominance. 

Hmph. Guy. 

_//Mad about you, mad .....//_

He kisses me harshly, our lips pushing against one another, teeth scraping and bruising and drawing blood. I taste the familiar tang of blood, and wonder, briefly, if it's his, or mine. Not that it matters, really, because there's no way it's enough to turn me, but I just...my reaction to tasting blood both fascinates and disgusts me. It really shouldn't be as arousing as it is. 

I'm a vampire junkie. I can't get enough of the whole...lifestyle, I suppose. Fucking Angelus like we're rabid dogs pretty much every night has taught me a lot about vampiric society, about sex and blood and dominance, and I understand it almost better than I understand human civilisation... I get vampires, but I just *don't* get humans. I don't know why. I don't even know what it is about humans that I don't get, but there it is. I don't get them. 

That's not to say I *like* vampires, really. I don't. I still kill the bastards every chance I get. I'm still the Slayer. I still protect people from becoming snack food for the mortality challenged, I just understand who it is I'm dusting a little better. It's actually made me a better hunter. 

_//Are you the fishy wine   
that will give me a headache in the morning   
or just a dark blue land mine   
that will explode without a decent warning.//_

I know it won't be like this forever. I know that one day, in the near future, I'm going to die, and I know that it will probably be at his hand. He might even turn me, I really don't know. I hope it's not the latter. I don't like the idea of me walking around, but not being *me*. Although, I suppose, the thought of being with Angelus forever is only half bad. It'd be like, a quarter bad, if I hadn't already seen how he treats his offspring. 

He growls, and I'm suddenly aware that I've been letting my mind drift away from what we've been doing, because he doesn't look pleased. 

"Glad you're so captivated by me, lover," he growls, sitting back on his haunches and looking at me petulantly. 

I giggle, and it sounds almost surreal to me. Such a normal girl thing to do while in bed with a lover. Normally, I'm more likely to scream, or cry, overtaken by pleasure-pain...but I feel strange beneath his gaze, because I know he wants me, and wants me to want him back. 

Which gives me power, more than I've ever really had in this 'relationship'. 

Now that I have it, I'm not even going to abuse it. Not ever going to use it. 

_//Give me all your true hate and   
I'll translate it in our bed,   
into never seen passion,   
never seen passion that is why   
I am so mad about you.   
Mad about you, mad ....//_

Kneeling, I crawl over to him, wrapping my arms wordlessly around his neck and pulling him down onto the mattress with me. Rolling us over so that I lie atop him, I attack his mouth...his chest...his shoulders and arms and torso and fingers and neck with my lips, licking and sucking and biting at his velvet skin. 

Our mating is fast, furious. We claw at each other, cause pain, draw blood. My muscles work harder than they ever have before, even in some of my most energetic battles, and still, I want more of him. 

_//Trouble is your middle name,   
but in the end you're not too bad.   
Can someone tell me   
if it's wrong to be so mad about you.//_

Later, exhausted, I turn on my side and watch him stand and pull on his jeans. He turns, and looks at me, and for a moment, he is smiling tenderly at me. I think he expects me to be asleep, but I just stare back at him, into the eyes that are cold and hot at the same time, apathetic and passionate and powerful. I think my eyes are probably much like his, in this moment. I think that should probably scare me, but it doesn't.

He is my enemy, and my lover. Doesn't that just sound incredibly like the plot of a bad spy movie?

He glowers at me when I try to get out of bed and get dressed. "Stay."

I arch one eyebrow at the command, "What am I, your pet?"

"Yes," he responds easily, moving to the exit of the room - his bedroom - and opening the door. He looks back at me for a moment, his lips twisted into a seductive grin. "If you're good, when I get back, I'll make you purr."

"And if I'm not good?" I reply, a little more suggestively than I had intended.

I'm surprised, and a little pleased, when he laughs and winks at me before he leaves the room. He leaves like this, sometimes. I suppose he goes to feed, or something. I've never asked. I don't think I'd like the answer.

_//Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you.//_

I stretch out languidly on his bed, his silk sheets bathing my body, the scent of our sex wafting in the air around me, and glare at the woman who walks through the door a few moments later. 

I have no problems admitting that I'm a highly jealous, highly possessive type of gal. I've been known to get quite hot-tempered when it comes to any sort of rivalry for Angel's affections or Angelus' body. I've kicked all sort of ass over him. 

Out of all the lovers I *know* Angelus has - he has never bothered hiding his promiscuity from me - this chick bothers me the most. 

Her name is Aurora - which I find a little perverse, considering she's a vampire, and sun will kill her - and she's beautiful. Stunning. She's Cordelia, if Cordy had fangs and was 150 years old. 

Angelus is her sire. She is his most favoured childe. Not even his precious, crazy Dru compares to Aurora, for him, and I know that he's got more than a little affection for Dru. So, if she can't compete, what chance do I have? What am I? I'm just...just a fuck-toy. A whore for him to mess around with for a while, until he gets bored. I'm nothing to him. 

I wish that didn't hurt so much. I wish... 

I wish I didn't love him just as much as I hate him. 

_//Give me all your true hate and   
I'll translate it in your bed,   
into never seen passion,   
that is why I am so mad about you//_

Aurora grins at me, her eyes sliding over my body, and I shiver. That's the other thing I hate about Aurora; she makes me feel slimy, like I've been touching things I shouldn't. 

I wrap the sheet tighter around my body, holding it to my chest. "Something you wanted, overbite?" I ask casually, years of lying to everybody I know giving me a pretty good poker-face. "Cause I'm sorta enjoying the afterglow here." 

Aurora shrugs, "Just looking for my sire... I was feeling...amorous. I'm sure Angelus will be all too eager to take care of my problem for me." She must see the look on my face, because she smirks. "He'll never love you, little girl." 

I feel defeated, in a thousand ways, and lean over the side of the bed to start gathering my clothes. Finding my tank top, I pull it on over my head, letting the sheet drop to my waist. I stand, wrapping the black silk around my waist like a sarong. 

Angelus walks back into the room, and, seeing me standing there in my tank top and his sheet, frowns. "I thought I told you to stay put, lover," he growls. 

"Yeah, well, I've got places to be," I say, a little bitterly. 

"Tough," he responds, pushing on my shoulders. My legs tangle in the sheet, and I lose my footing, falling backwards onto the bed. 

"Angel," I whine. I've never gotten out of the habit of calling him that, and he doesn't really seem to care, as long as we still do the fucking thing. "Come on, Angel. You've got *her*. What do you need me for?" 

He waves a hand in Aurora's direction, issuing a rumbling command, "Leave us." 

Then he's on the bed, next to me, over me, under me, in me, consuming me, burning me...killing me, little by little. 

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers in my ear, and I shiver, pressing myself against him more fully. For a moment, I feel like he needs me. 

Then I realise it doesn't really matter, because I need him anyway. 

Because I can't get enough of him either. 

_//Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you   
Mad about you...//_


End file.
